


You’re Not Alone In This Darkness

by SiriusBlackBae



Category: Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cannibalism, Curse gone wrong, Empathy Disorder, F/M, Hallucinations, Harry Potter is Will Graham, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Luna is a Good Friend, M/M, PTSD, Stag - Freeform, War, Will Graham Needs A Break, but - Freeform, i guess, im really bad at tagging, so not really a triad, we’re all mad here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2020-05-20 19:20:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19383136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SiriusBlackBae/pseuds/SiriusBlackBae
Summary: Fourteen years after the War has ended, Head Auror Harry Potter is struck by an empathy curse. Unable to deal with the fickleness and lies of the Wizarding World, he goes off to America, taking on the name Will Graham in an effort to separate himself from the person he used to be.He moves to Wolf Trap, Virginia, and soon finds himself trapped within a nest of secrets and lies. Will he be able to adapt to the darkness which follows him, or will he find himself at the mercy of one Dr. Hannibal Lecter?





	1. Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland - Through The Rabbit Hole

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [What Do I Know of Life After Death?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9516722) by [QueenofLit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenofLit/pseuds/QueenofLit). 
  * Inspired by [What Do I Know of Life After Death?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9516722) by [QueenofLit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenofLit/pseuds/QueenofLit). 



> This is inspired by the great QueenofLit’s What Do I Know of Life After Death?. Please go check out this amazing work; it’s a real show stopper. 
> 
> Lines in italics are copied directly from the show. These and the places, ideas, and characters within are not mine. If they were, Hannigram would have been much more of a thing, and Harry Potter would have actually fought in the war (as you’ll be able to see), instead of going camping for several months. 
> 
> Tell me what you think, or at least give kudos, subscribe, whatever. 
> 
> And now, on with the show!

“Harry,” Hermione said firmly, and he had to resist the usual contriteness which threatened to bow his head. He was done bowing his head.

“Will,” Harry corrected, a familiar battle.

“Will,” Hermione’s echo wasn’t quite agreement, nor was it quite an apology, but it would do. “You can’t run away from your problems forever.”

Harry wanted to reply, “watch me,” a sentence akin to something he would have said to Draco Malfoy, years ago. But that would get them nowhere, so he bit back the words.

“I’m not running away, Hermione. But Britain is toxic for me right now.” Only a bit of lie, but Will couldn’t find it in himself to care. And anyway, Britain was toxic.

“What about Teddy?” Hermione asked, and the look on her face showed that she knew it was a low blow.

“He’s got Andromeda,” Will said. “And besides, I don’t think I’d be a great role model for him.” Hermione frowned, but even she could see the truth in that statement. Everyone had been having trouble coping, but it had been fourteen years since the end of the War, and most everyone was, if not fine, then much better than he was, now.

“I just don’t understand,” Hermione said finally, looking helpless. “You’ve been cursed before,” understatement, “so why is this one making you change your name and move halfway across the world?” There were tears in her eyes, and the unspoken words hung heavy between them. _Why are you abandoning us_?

“What happened, Hermione, was that this curse isn’t reversible. I feel _everything_. I can feel your guilt and loneliness. I can feel it when you get so upset with Ron you think you might one day kill him. I can feel it every time someone looks at me with scorn or hero worship. It’s suffocating. I can’t stand it here, ‘Mione. You’re going to have to accept that.” Will wanted to be able to say that the vicious pride in Hermione’s shell shocked and horror filled expression wasn’t his, but that would be a lie.

“That’s cruel, Harry,” Hermione said, and Will had to take a moment to process those words.

“I lead a war for you. I sacrificed myself for you. And it’s never enough. That’s why I’m leaving,” he said. His voice brokered no argument, and with a pop he’d already apparated back to his empty apartment.

 

“I want you on my team, Graham,” Jack Crawford said. The intimidating man was obviously getting tired of trying to convince him. Will was getting tired of feeling like a rook in a giant game of chess.

“Yeah? Well I want to be able to teach in peace,” Will snarled.

“Why? You’re a fully fledged FBI agent. Don’t you want to save people?” For a moment, Will thought he would tear Jack apart with his bare hands. He forced himself to take a deep breath, wrangling control over himself.

“Yes, but not at the price of my sanity,” Will said. He was already broken enough as it was. He didn’t need any more deaths on his conscience. He didn’t need any more guilt for not feeling enough about them.

“We’ll make sure you’re anchored. The board would demand you meet with a psychiatrist anyway,” Jack said. Will sighed, rubbing his fingers over his head.

“I don’t want to see a psychiatrist, Jack,” Will said.

“Will you do it?” Jack asked, ignoring Will. There was so much desperation there, that even if Will hadn’t known he was going to cave, that would have clued him in.

“Fine,” he bit out, “but only on a trial basis. If it becomes too much, I’m done. And I’m not going to stop teaching, so don’t even try.”

“Wonderful,” Jack said, and lead the way out of his classroom, explaining the case as they went.

 

In Jack’s office, he handed Will a picture.

“ _Number eight?_ ” He asked, posting the picture onto the board.

“ _Elise Nichols. St. Cloud State on the Mississippi. Disappeared on Friday. Was supposed to house sit for her parents on the weekend, feed the cat. She never made it home_. “ Will looked over the board of information.

“ _Yeah, one through seven are dead, don’t you think? He’s not keeping them around, he got himself a new one_.”

“ _So we focus on Elise Nichols_ ,” Jack confirmed. Will wanted to sneer. Wasn’t Jack the one that was supposed to be leading this team? Not Will. However, Will just stepped closer to the board, again studying the girls’ faces.

“ _They’re all very, uh, Mall of America. That’s a lot of wind-chafed skin_.”

“ _Same hair color_ ,” Jack rushed to add. “ _Same eye color. Roughly the same age, same weight. So what is it about all of these girls_?”

“ _It’s not about all of these girls_ ,” Harry corrected. “ _It’s about one of these girls. It’s about one of them._ Hidden among all of these... substitutes is the real, intended, victim.” Will vividly recalled the summer before his fifth year, when they all polyjuiced to look like him. That was the same night Hedwig had died.

“ _So is he warming up to his, ah, golden ticket, or just reliving whatever he did to her_?” Jack asked, jolting Will out of his memories. He was a bit confused by the golden ticket thing, but figured it was some muggle or American expression he’d never learned.

“ _She wouldn’t be the first taken, and she wouldn’t be the last. He’d want to hide how special she was. I would. Wouldn’t you_?” Will backed up a bit. If this was how close he was getting through pictures, maybe he’d have to rethink his agreement.

“We’ll fly out to Duluth tonight, then. To go talk to the parents,” Jack said.

“I’m not very sociable,” Will warned. Jack ignored him, and began walking to the doorway. Will sighed again, but followed.

 

“We simply have no way of knowing,” Jack was saying to the parents as they blithered about their child. Their fear was heavy, but Will felt some scorn towards them, because it was the useless sort of fear which made them incapable of anything. He tamped down on that part of himself, but couldn’t resist interrupting their meaningless conversation.

“ _How’s the cat_?” Will’s voice was harsher and louder than he’d expected it to be. Maybe he really was out of practice with being social.

“ _What_?” The mother asked. Will turned around to face them.

“ _How’s your cat? Elise was supposed to feed it. Was the cat weird when you came home? It must have been hungry, didn’t eat all weekend_ ,” Will added. The parents shared a look of confusion.

“ _I-I didn’t notice_ ,” the father admitted. Will nodded. That had been obvious from the moment he’d asked the question. Will shot a look to Jack.

“ _Could you give us a moment, please_?” He asked, and they both walked a little ways away to speak without the parents freaking out.

“ _He took her from here_ ,” Will whispered. “ _She got on a train, came home. Fed the cat. Then he took her_.” Jack sighed, and nodded. He took out his phone, dialing someone.

“ _The Nichols house is a crime scene. I need ERT immediately_ ,” Jack ordered, the sound almost unbearably loud in the heavy home. Jack continued to detail exactly who he wanted, while the family began to seriously freak out.

“ _Why’s it now a crime scene_?” The father asked.

“ _Can I see your daughter’s room_?” Will ignored the father’s question.

“ _Police were up there this morning_ ,” the man argued, but soon enough was leading Will up to the room. He really didn’t have a lot of patience for their grief. Will understood it, definitely, but by the time the War was over, he’d seen so many grieving parents that he mostly lost his sympathy for them. Especially after seeing Molly Weasley’s firey rage, and the Malfoy’s hardened and icy hope in the face of missing and/or dead children. This weak uselessness was... annoying.

“ _I’ll get that_ ,” Will rushed to stop the father from opening the door. “ _Mr, Nichols, please put your hands in your pockets and avoid touching anything_.”

“ _But we’ve been in and out of here all day_ ,” the man protested. Again.

“ _You can hold the cat, if that’s easier_ ,” Will offered. The man looked from Will to the cat a couple times, before bending down to pick it up. Will opened the door, stepping inside slightly. Almost before he’d registered the dead girl on the bed, the father was overwhelmed with fear and horror.

Reacting to his emotions, Will turned to grab the man and the cat, forcing them out of the room. “ _Elise_ ,” the man cried, surging towards the bed.

“ _I need you to leave the room_ ,” Will said. The man dropped the cat, but Will was already pushing the man backwards, down towards the kitchen where Jack was.

 

Will barely listened to Jack’s parting words as he left him with the body of Elise Nichols, eyes locked onto her prone form. He was barely holding himself apart from the emotions lingering around her, and the moment Jack had closed the door, Will was reliving the girl’s death.

_He was standing over her sleeping body, watching as she shifted in sleep. Without warning, he launched himself over her, straddling her and choking her. Her eyes stared up at him, alive and fearful. Something happy twisted in his gut, and a smile drew itself along his mouth._

“ _You’re Will Graham_ ,” a voice shook him out of his trance with all the subtlety of an entrails expelling curse, and Will was left fumbling and disoriented as he worked to realign himself with the here and the now.

“ _You’re not supposed to be in here_ ,” he forced out, his limbs shaking. The woman didn’t notice.

“ _You wrote the standard monograph on time of death by insect activity_.” Will regretted, then, publishing that with the muggles as well as the magicals (Will Graham has been his pen name for a long time, now. There was a reason he’d had an easy time making a history with it. A life).

Will fumbled for breath, slowly able to realign himself with reality. Get back into himself. “ _I found antler velvet in two of the wounds_ ,” the woman was still oblivious to his obvious not fine-ness.

“You’re supposed to be working with us for now, right?” The woman asked.

“Trial basis,” Will grunted out.

“Right. You from England?”

“Y-Yeah.” Remarkably, thinking about England, and the War by proxy helped him ground his identity to himself, and Will pulled himself up some.

“ _You know you’re not supposed to be in here_ ,” Jack said, from behind him. Will barely managed not to jump.

“ _I found antler velvet in two of the wounds, like she was gored. I was looking for velvet in the other wounds, but I was interrupted_ ,” the woman repeated. Will was finally able to focus on the words, though her eyes on him were distracting, so he turned away.

“ _Hold on. Excuse me. Deer and elk pine their prey, okay? They put all their weight into their antlers, try and suffocate a victim. That’s how they would try and kill, like, a fox or a coyote_ ,” a man said as the rest of the team entered the room.

“ _All right, Elise Nichols was strangled, suffocated. Her ribs were broken_ ,” Jack summarized.

“ _Antler velvet is rich in nutrients. It actually promotes healing. He may have put it there on purpose_ ,” Will interrupted, drawing the confused eyes of all the room’s occupants. Barring the dead girl, of course.

“ _You think he was trying to heal her_?” Jack sounded incredulous. Well, he asked for Will’s opinion.

“ _He wanted to undo as much as he could-given that he’d already killed her_ ,” Will defended his idea. He could still feel the man in his head.

“ _He put her back where he found her_.”

“ _Whatever he did to the others, he couldn’t do it to her_.”

“Is this the one we’re looking for?”

“ _No, this is an apology_. He would feel proud if his true victim. Not like he was sorry.” The room fell into silence at his words, the questioning of his judgement by most of them causing his wand hand to twitch.

“ _Does anyone have any aspirin_?” He asked.

 

As he was driving home that night, he nearly crashed the car when he saw Sirius trotting on the side of the road. Stopping abruptly, he got out to look, hoping that this wasn’t another hallucination from seeing that girl’s dead body. But the dog was too small to be Sirius, and too well fed.

Still, it might have been the likeness, or the calm steadiness that resonated from the old dog, or his “saving people thing,” but Will spent the next hour convincing the dog to come home with him.

He gave the dog a bath, the soothing motions and the dog’s peaceful nature keeping him grounded and feeling relatively safe. All the while, he thought about names. His mind kept being drawn back to Snuffles, but then he would look into the dog’s dark, calm eyes (so unlike his godfather’s excitable, grey ones), and he couldn’t do it.

“ _Winston_?” Will looked to his pack of six dogs. “ _This is everybody. Everybody, this is Winston_.” Why was it always seven?

 

The dreams plagued him that night, as he had known they would. Elise Nichols, keying by his side on the bed, looking up towards a killer that was no longer there. Blood on the sheets as her body rose above the bed, angelic in her death.

It would have been simple to take a dreamless sleep, except for the fact that he was now immune to them, from how he’d abused them when the War first ended. And it would have also been simple to dry himself and his blankets with a cleaning spell, except that he had stopped using magic since his transition to being a muggle. Even his wand was locked away in a warded safe under the floorboards.

So he simply draped towels over himself to keep the sheets clean, and went back to his fitful rest.

 

He woke up more exhausted than he fell asleep, but a long run in the crisp air with his dogs, and a steaming mug of good tea was enough to make him a semi functional human being. Emphasis on the semi.

Which is why he found himself hiding in the men’s bathroom, trying to scrub away his mind in a sink full of water. That lasted exactly until the water turned into blood.

“ _What are you doing in here_?” Jack asked, agitation and anger (mostly at himself) instantly revealing him if his words didn’t.

“ _I enjoy the smell of urinal cake_ ,” Will snarked, his cheek always coming out in the worst moments. He really didn’t do well with authority figures.

“ _Me too_ ,” Jack agreed without pause. “ _We need to talk_.” Will tossed the paper towel he’d used to dry his face into the bin, as an agent walked in, unbuckling his pants to take a piss.

“ _USE THE LADIES ROOM_!” Jack roared, frightening the poor agent out of his mind.

“ _You respect my judgment, Will?_ “ He asked, pacing. Will nodded, though that was a bit of a stretch. He respected his judgement in regards to getting the killer caught the fastest. Not necessarily his mental and emotional health.

“ _Good, because we will stand a better chance of catching this guy with you - in the saddle_.” Will wanted to laugh. Did he pay attention at all?

“ _Yeah, I'm in the saddle. I'm just, um, confused which direction I'm pointing. I don't know this kind of psychopath. I've never read about him. I don't even know if he's a psychopath. He's not insensitive. He's not shallow_.”

“ _You know something about him; otherwise, you wouldn't have said, "This is an apology”. What is he apologizing for_?” Will looked off into the distance, feeling the way he felt about the girl as he killed her.

“ _He couldn't honour her. He feels bad_.”

“ _Well, feeling bad defeats the purpose of being - a psychopath, doesn't it_?”

“ _Yes! It does_ ,” Will shouted, because this was exactly the problem. It didn’t make sense!

“ _Then what kind of crazy is he_?!” Jack screamed in his face. Will forced himself to shove aside all of his emotions and those coming from Jack, focusing instead on what he could still see. Still feel.

“ _He couldn't show her he loved her, so he put her corpse back where he killed it. Whatever crazy that is_.”

“ _You think he loves these girls_?”

“ _He loves one of them. A-And, yes, I think by association he has some form of love for the others_.”

“ _There was no semen, there was no saliva. Elise Nichols died a virgin. She stayed that way_.” Rage filled his vision, and Will imagined himself killing Jack in a million different ways. For a moment, he almost convinced himself he’d already done it.

“ _That's not how he's loving them. He wouldn't disrespect them that way! He doesn't want these girls to suffer. He kills them quickly and_ -“ Will stopped, realizing exactly how entrenched in the killer’s mind he’d become. “ _To his thinking, with mercy_.”

“ _Sensitive psychopath. Risked getting caught so he could tuck Elise Nichols back into bed_.” Jack didn’t notice or comment on the pause, and that above anything else showed exactly why Will didn’t trust him with his mental health. He wouldn’t be able to tell when he went too far.

“ _He has to take the next girl soon 'cause he knows he's gonna get caught. One way or the other_.”

 

Will say in the lab, trying not to look at the body. If he looked at the body, he’d see himself. Killing her. Over and over and over again.

“ _The scrapings were from her own palms when she scratched them. She never scratched him. Piece of metal is all we got_.”

“ _We should be looking at plumbers, steamfitters, tool workers_ ,” Will says, because it seems no one else is going to. He stops listening after that for the most part, as his eyes finally lock onto the body he’d been avoiding. Once more, he saw himself killing her. He eyes as they stared up at him, the pride and power of his kill. He saw the way her body floated into the air, beautiful as she hung from the antlers of his previous kill. Beautiful as he carved-

“ _She was mounted on them. Like hooks_.” Will snapped out of the vision. There was an ugly pause as they all looked at him, but after a moment they seemed to accept his statement. “ _She may have been bled_.”

“ _Her liver was removed_.” They all looked at Zeller as he reached into the girl’s stomach. They had no idea the monster in his skull. Well, monsters. “ _See that? He took it out, and then - yep, he put it back in_.”

“ _Why would he cut it out if he's just gonna sew it back in again_?” Brian asked. Will gave him an incredulous look. How did they not see? Will didn’t even need his empathy to know that one.

“ _There was something wrong with the meat_.”

“ _She has liver cancer_ ,” Zeller looked at him like he was crazy, distrust and wariness pouring off of him even more than the others.

“ _He's, um he's eating them_ ,” Will said, because they looked like they needed it spelled out for them. Honestly, was this Jack’s team? If Will had been in charge, he’d never have allowed this level of incompetence.

 

Will went to a gym that evening after classes, because at that point he was a ball of anxiety that would explode if he didn’t let out some of the tension.

But as he fought against the punching bag, he became overwhelmed with memories of killing Nichols, which turned into memories of killing dark wizards and purists in the line of duty, which turned into memories of the war.

_He was tired. So tired. The kind of exhaustion which settled itself into your bones, weighing them down with an unescapable heaviness. It would tickle his nerve endings, until he wasn’t quite sure if he was laughing or crying or dying. The kind of exhaustion that held his heart in its grip, and squeezed the opposite way it was pumping, with a spastic sort of rhythm that made blackness cross his vision, and his limbs jittery and shaky. He was so tired that he could not sleep, like his very body was confused because awake was the new sleep, the new natural state._

_Still, everyone was looking to him. Those in the DA that were still alive, he understood. But the adults? Remus? It was a responsibility that weighed him down, and wouldn’t go away even after the War. If there could ever be an “after the War.” So despite the weariness, Harry stood at the head of the table, drawing up battle strategies and training strategies. Figuring out how to get food, supplies. Where to sleep, how to defend it. Where to strike next, how to prevent the next strike from killing them all._

_A massive bang shook the floor and walls, and everyone froze for half a second, before everything was in motion._

_“Death Eaters!” Someone cried, as they scrambled for their placement. It was sloppy, and if they made it out alive, Harry was going to have to run drills with them until they were bloody._

_“Sonorus. FORMATIONS!” He screamed above the sounds of battle that were already taking place, and inside the interconnected cabins, they lined up in rows of two. The front, with a shield charm, the back with wands and guns at the ready for attack. Young and old, practiced and new. Everyone that was physically capable was fighting in this war. Harry saw Hermione behind Ron and his shield charm, like everyone else. But he had no time to swaddle, as the enemy was already on top of them. So with a shield charm in front of him and a semi-automatic pointing towards the closed door, he screamed, “NOW!”_

_The battle raged. There was no mercy, as formations devolved into single person fighting. Harry paid no attention to anything but the next enemy in front of him, killing without kindness or mercy. There was no such thing, in death._

_Eventually, there were no more enemies to defeat. They’d won this round, but Voldemort would get better. They had to, too. So they put their weapons down (but ever within reach), and burned the dead. Tonight, they would mourn and drink, and tomorrow, they would hunt and plan._

_“How’s it lookin’?” Ron asked, coming up to Harry with two cups of vodka. He handed one to Harry, who downed the nasty shit gratefully._

_“Horrible. We need more food, again. If Winter comes and we’re still this low on supplies, I’m not sure we’ll make it,” Harry said. And that wasn’t even mentioning numbers. Voldemort (by their best estimate) had eight thousand in his army. Their side, on the other hand, was at seven thousand, with numbers dropping quickly, because they were spread out into seven different camps. Each camp was being lead by a trusted member of their inner core, but the moral in some of them was reportedly low, with significant amounts of deserters each night. They needed food, supplies, and a major win. Something that could revitalize their army, or else they would lose for sure._

_Two nights later, there was another attack. A unprecedented turnaround, and now their camp was down to six hundred. And that night, stumbling into camp, came a group of twenty wizards. Harry knew he’d never forget the sight of those twenty bloody, torn, and broken soldiers, one of which his darling Ginny. Ron had run to his sister, holding her in his arms. She didn’t cry, but her blank face as she told him she was sorry for failing him, that they’d taken them by surprise in the dead of night with double their men, slaughtering the whole camp. A thousand people, now twenty. Fred and George, and thirty too young or old to fight were now among the dead._

_Ginny was never the same after that._

Will’s knuckles were bloody by the time he was done, but thankfully hadn’t broken any bones. He gasped for breath, and leaned his head against the hard concrete walls. The War has been over for more than a decade, now, but sometimes it seemed as if it had only been yesterday.


	2. Beloved - Is this Ghost in our Houses or our Heads?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been wanting to edit and eventually finish this work, but I've decided that if I haven't after this long, I'm not going to. So I'm posting now everything that I have, and after that I'm abandoning it, unfortunately.

“ _Tell me then, how many confessions_?” Hannibal asked. It was intriguing to be on this side of the line, he was finding. They didn’t seem to be half as capable as he’d anticipated.

“ _Twelve dozen, last time I checked. None of them had any details-until this morning. Then they all had details. Some genius in Duluth PD took a photograph of Elise Nichols’ body with his cell phone, shared it with his friends, then Freddie Lounds posted it on_ TattleCrime.com _._ “

“ _Tasteless_ ,” Will Graham sneered, disgust in his tone.

“ _Do you have trouble with taste_?” He asked, trying to get a read on this man that Alana Bloom was so enamores by, and Jack Crawford was so desperate to use.

“ _My thoughts are often not tasty_ ,” Will went with. There was a hesitation, as if he had wanted to say something else. Hannibal glances towards Will, cataloguing his straight and confident back, and shifting eyes. A discrepancy.

“ _Nor mine_.” It was his answer, though, that sparked Will’s attention. His eyes were heavy on Hannibal. “ _No effective barriers_.”

“ _I build forts_ ,” Will snorted, as if remembering something humorous, but not funny.

“ _Associations come quickly_ ,” Hannibal commented, poking the bear that was Graham.

“ _So do forts_.” The reply was instantaneous, belying a quick and ready mind. He was capable, not unconfident. Except the eye contact. The anxiety that dropped off of Will. It didn’t fit.

“ _Not fond of eye contact, are you_?” He probed. Will sighed.

“ _Eyes are distracting. See too much_ ,” Will looked up from his tea, meeting Hannibal’s eyes, “ _or not enough_.” An accusation, but then it was gone, and Will’s brilliantly green eyes were back on his tea. “ _Jack_?” He called, moment gone.

“ _I imagine what you see touches everything else in your mind_ ,” Hannibal suggested. Will turned back to him, eyes flitting about, never staying in one place too long. “ _Your values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations, appalled at your dreams. No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love_.” Will’s eyes were suddenly steady as they stared at each other, for the first time since they’d met, Will was still.

Then he laughed. It was jarring, and short. “The things I love are gone,” he said tellingly, then turned to Jack.

“I told you, I don’t do well with mind-psychiatrists.” He stood up, and Hannibal catalogued the slip. Mind what? “When you have something to add about the case, come find me. Otherwise, stay out of my way,” Will glared at Hannibal, before turning and walking out of the room.

“ _Maybe we shouldn’t poke him like that, Doctor. Perhaps a less, direct approach_ ,” Jack said. Interesting, how it was only once Will made a dramatic and angry refusal of Jack’s actions that the man backed up.

“ _What he has is pure empathy_ ,” Hannibal explained to Jack, leaning forward in his chair. “ _He can assume your point of view, or mine, or maybe some other point of view that scares him_. He does it, all the time. He likely always knows what you are feeling. My subtlety would be like a banshee wail to Will, so I do not do him the indignity of pretending.” Jack nodded and hummed.

“ _This cannibal you have him getting to know... I think I can help good Will see his face_.”

 

 

The body of the next victim was (beautiful) wrong. It didn’t fit. The moment Will laid eyes on her, he knew that this wasn’t the same killer. The way her naked body was poised, the stolen dear head. All of it. Most crime scenes, the emotions which lingered in the body and the details around it caused Will to feel... not himself. Like his very mind was being hijacked.

But this. Oh, this. Will couldn’t take his eyes off the scene. The artistry. The elevation of human form into something better. It wasn’t love, or lust, or anger or disgust. It was a painting. A blank canvas turned into an elegant scene of airborne grace.

“ _You think this was a copycat_?” Jack asked. How couldn’t they see it?

“ _The cannibal who killed Elise Nichols had a place to do it and no interest in_ -“ worship- “ _in field kabuki_.” It was only after the got off the field that Will realized how off his thoughts had been. Murder shouldn’t be beautiful (and yet, Will already knew that should he get to see another of this killer’s crimes, he would feel the exact same way).

 

 

Will didn’t know what is was about that name-Garret Jacob Hobbs. There was a missing address, sure, but that wasn’t it. Not really. The moment he’d seen it, he’d known. Like he knew when someone was angry, or amused. Like he knew the the blank spot that was Lecter’s emotions most of the time shouldn’t be as comforting as it was.

When he saw the mother’s body, bleeding out on the floor, Will changed. His thoughts, his emotions, everything shut down, to light up the instinct which had kept him alive so long. The mother was a lost cause; he didn’t give her more than a glance, but it was easy to tell. She’s have a cleaner death than many. So he kicked open the door, walking into the kitchen.

Garret Jacob Hobbs was standing behind his daughter with a knife. Will didn’t pause a moment, the bullet going clean through the man’s skull. Will registered Hannibal like he registered all threats, with a pointed gun and a single once over. But he was simply standing still, a small lick of amusement escaping him.

So Will turned his back to the man, in favor of the child who was bleeding out on the kitchen floor. He pressed his hand onto her throat. She would not die, as long as he kept pressure, and help came quickly. If he used magic, it would be fixed in a moment or two, but this was the muggle world.

“Call the cops,” he ordered Lecter, still holding the wound.

“Of course,” Lecter said, calm as ever. A tickling of... something in the back of his mind told him there was something wrong with that response, but he was still too on edge and focused on the girl to notice.

After the call, Lecter took over for Will (apparently he was a doctor), which allowed Will to center into himself again. Still, he knew he’d need to call Luna again. Hobbs had gotten far too deep into his mind.

 

 

 

 

Will finally showed up to his class two days later, when he felt like Hobbs was out of his head enough to teach (or when he got too sick of staring at his walls to not go in).

Predictably, the class gave him a standing ovation when he walked in that morning. It was an ugly thing, to celebrate someone’s death. In the war, it was mostly Voldemort’s death they celebrated, because otherwise they were too busy counting their dead and preparing for the next encounter to take any joy out of the deaths of their enemies. After the war, though, news headlines about Harry Potter’s great escapades as an Auror were disgustingly common, and it turned Will off of the whole, “applaud someone for killing” thing.

“Stop that,” he barked. The class sat down. “Thank you for your appreciation, but death should not be celebrated.” He turned away to begin the lecture, ironically one on the very killer they were praising him for murdering.

Jack showed up when there was still fifteen minutes left of his class. He seemed to expect Will to stop teaching to address him, but Will ignored the man for the remainder of the lesson, and Jack was notably agitated-even without his empathy-by the time the students were dismissed.

“Will. How are you?” Jack asked. Will wondered if he should feel worse about the kill. If he hadn’t killed countless before that, he probably would have.

“Hobbs got into my head,” Will told him frankly. “Which is how I caught him. I won’t be able to work any cases with you for a while more, until one of my... friends comes into town to help.”

“Friends? The board has ordered you to see a therapist if you are having troubles.”

“Yes. She has experience with my condition.”

“There are others like you?”

“No, but she’s gotten me out of some bad places before.”

“Fine. But you will still meet with Hannibal weekly. Talk to him to arrange the schedule.” Jack’s face showed he wasn’t going to budge on this, and Will sighed.

“Fine.”

 

 

In an effort to avoid the hospital where Abigail Hobbs was still in a coma, Will ended up spending almost obscene hours at the range and gym. Mostly the range, which was a battle Will knew he wasn’t going to win.

Which was where he was almost a week later, firing towards the paper target.

_“No. Like this,” Tonks corrected his stance, again. Harry sighed in frustration, and Tonks laughed. It was bright and loud, something out of character with the rest of the camp._

_“Have patience. It’s only your firstweek learning. You’ll get better,” she told him, humor making her voice light and easy. Harry nodded firmly, at odds with her light demeanor. He would get better. He had to, or more people he loved would die._

_“Now aim, breathe in, breathe out, and shoot.” At her word, he shot, the kickback making his body jolt, and his shoulder ache. He didn’t let it show, though. He couldn’t let them baby him. He had to lead all of them, and they couldn’t respect him if he showed weakness. There was no one else who could step up, so he had to be the one. He was always the one._

_“Let’s go see that target, eh?” She said, and they went up to the stack of transfigured hay and paper. Only one of the bullets had made it onto the paper, near the figure’s left thigh._

_“No rush,” Tonks lied, “let’s just try again.” They marched back to the line they’d drawn to mark his place, and started again._

They were lucky they could transfigure bullets, otherwise the Light wouldn’t have had the resources to train everyone and continually fight with guns.

It had taken him nearly three weeks to get good enough to be able to hit what he aimed at, and the rest of the summer to be able to hold his shield up with his wand at the same time, but it wasn’t until about then that Voldemort truly realized that they’d organized a resistance anyway, so it’d ended up alright.

Will pushed the button to call the paper forward, taking off his earphones as he did. For a split second, Hobbs’ dead body replaced the paper, and Will froze. Hobbs had gotten farther into his brain than he’d thought.

All sixteen rounds were exactly where he’d wanted them to be. Three in the center of his forehead, three in the chest. Two in the shoulder, one in the knee, one in the kidney, one in each hand, one in each foot, and two in the throat. Throwing away his paper, he got a call from one Hannibal Lecter.

“Will Graham,” he said.

“Hello Will, this is Hannibal Lecter. Jack told me we were to schedule a time for our therapy?”

“Yes, I suppose so. I don’t have any classes on Tuesday, would sometime then work?”

“Yes, actually. How about six o’clock?”

“Okay.”

“How are you feeling, Will?”

“Therapy already? I’m mostly functional, though as Jack probably told you, I have a friend coming into town to help me get Hobbs out of my head.”

“Why not me?” Did he sound... hurt? No, it was just in his head. Merlin, he needed Luna.

“She-“ how did one explain Luna? “She’s a childhood friend, and she has experience in my head. Besides, she could never think I’m crazy.”

“You’re close, then?”

“As close as one can get with Luna.”

“I see. Well, I must be going. I will see you on Tuesday.”

“Bye, then.”

“Goodbye.” Hannibal hung up, and Will stared at the phone for a moment. What was that about?


	3. Untitled Chapter

“You said you wouldn’t go into the field,” Jack started without a greeting the moment Will looked up from his lunch.

“Yes.”

“We’ve found the cabin where Hobbs did all of his killing.”

“I won’t go into the field, Jack. Besides, Hobbs is dead.”

“His daughter-“

“You think Abigail helped her father?” Will wouldn’t admit to how likely that was.

Jack didn’t respond.

“Jack, Hobbs wouldn’t have allowed his daughter to kill with him.”

“She could have helped lure the victims.”

“Why would she do that?”

“To protect herself from her father.”

“He wouldn’t have threatened her. She wouldn’t have participated.” Jack wasn’t convinced. Will sighed, rubbing his head. His migraines were starting up again.

“No, Jack. I won’t go into the field at all until Luna okays me. If you really need me to look at some evidence, I’ll go into the lab, but that is it.”

“Fine. I’ll call you when that happens.” When. Jack left, and Will dropped his head into his hands. When would Luna show up?

“Oh,” Jack stopped, walking back towards him. “I nearly forgot. The board wants a psych eval. Hannibal will give it to you your next session.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you won’t go into the field. If you say you’re unhealthy, the board needs some reassurance before they okay you going into the field again.”

“But I won’t go into the field until Luna says I’m alright, so why do I need a psych eval now?”

“Who is this Luna, anyway? A lover?”

“What, me and Luna? Never! She’s a good childhood friend.”

“Right.”

“Fine. I’ll agree to the evaluation if you stay away from my friend. She likes her privacy.”

“Fine.”

 

 

Will caved to go see Abigail’s unconscious form two days after that. It was a Sunday, and Saturday had been spent fishing and trying not to think about Abigail.

She was beautiful, in a soft and delicate way. There was still too little life to her cheeks, but the rise and fall of her chest was comforting. Will sat in the chair next to her bed, and didn’t grab her hand. Or, well, tried not to anyway.

An hour later still found him holding it, staring at her still form. His tea had long gone cold, but Will was too enchanted with her face to move.

Until, before his eyes, everything changed. The room fell away to darkness, and out of her stomach, deer antlers seemed to grow. Blood dropped down her body, and Will could see bruises shaped like hands-his hands-wrapped around her neck. Then her eyes opened, and her face turned into that of Teddy.

With a gasp, Will woke up.

 

 

Hannibal Lecter’s office was large and spacious, with pleasantly calming decor and a refined feeling to it. Harry felt about as our if place as he always felt at the Longbottom’s, but at least there weren’t any dead animals on the walls here.

Will trailed his hands over the old books. He was on the second floor, able to look down over the rest of the room. It felt safer than the chairs and couches in the rest of the room, which just went to show how shaken he was from the whole Hobbs thing.

Hannibal turned from his desk, holding out a piece of paper.

“ _What’s that?_ ”

“ _Your psychological evaluation. You are totally functional and more or less sane. Well done_.”

“Just like that?” Hannibal Lecter appeared at first glance a rule follower. Someone who played just within the bounds of the rules of society. If this wasn’t a dream, that first impression was most definitely wrong. Will was not often wrong about these sort of things, which begged the question, Who was Hannibal Lecter, begins the mask?

“Indeed. Do you have a problem with it?”

“No.” It was funny, it had been so long since he’d last broken a rule (and while his transition to a muggle named Will Graham was illegal, it didn’t count. That was necessity), and he’d almost forgotten the rush.

“Crawford thinks I need therapy. You don’t agree?” He paced on the dark wooden pathway, hand trailing along the banister.

“ _I think you need a way out of dark places when Jack sends you there_.”

“Getting out is easy. It’s getting out alone that’s the problem.”

“Are you alone right now, Will?”

“Hobbs got into my head. I haven’t yet rid myself of him.”

“Then this is not a useless meeting.” Will shrugged. He didn’t feel up to arguing.

“How does it feel, to have a killer in your head?”

“A killer, or Hobbs?”

“Is there a difference?” Will looked at Hannibal strangely. There was no way Hannibal didn’t know the answer to that question.

“Of course. Take Hobbs and his copycat, for example. Where Hobbs was consumed with this love, this adoration for the girls he killed, the copycat felt little at all for her. Garret Jacob Hobbs wanted to devour his daughter, and worship her. His kills were just substitutes for his girl. The copycat... he’s an artist who’s medium is human flesh,” Will realized that his crazy was showing, and stopped. “They are about as different as killers can be.”

“Fascinating,” Will looked at Hannibal at those words. There was something about them, but what was it? Hannibal’s muted emotions were difficult to parse through, and sometimes Will only had the tickling is knowledge creeping into the back of his mind to see that there was something off about Hannibal.

“And Abigail? What are your emotions for her?”

“I feel,” Will searched for words, “protective over her, and almost kinship with her.”

“A surrogate father, perhaps?” Hannibal offered.

“More like a godfather.”

“Did you have a godfather who was present in your life?” Hannibal asked. Will have him a look.

“You’ll have to try harder than that,” he said. Hannibal nodded his head slightly, a small smirk which would have been unnoticeable in most others, but was plain to see on Hannibal’s mostly expressionless face.

“Very well.”

“Why ask about Abigail? She’s still in a coma.”

“You saved her life, and orphaned her in the process. _That comes with certain emotional obligations regardless of empathy disorders_.”

“ _You were there. You saved her life too. Do you feel obligated_?” Hannibal looked Will in the eyes, wordlessly telling him that his sloppy turnaround hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“ _Yes_ ,” he still said. “ _I feel a staggering amount of obligation. I feel responsibility. I’ve fantasized about scenarios where my actions may have allowed a different fate for Abigail Hobbs_.” Wasn’t that familiar?

“She is not dead,” Will reminded them both, “and she is free from her father.”

“She is still alone in a cruel and blameful world.”

“Not quite alone, though, is she?”

“Indeed.”

“ _Jack thinks Abigail Hobbs helped her dad kill those girls_.”

“What do you think?”

“I think that she does not deserve the fate destined for her when people inevitably blame her for her father’s actions.”

“What will you do about that?”

“Help her,” the words were knee-jerk, but still true when Will thought them over moments later. “What will you do?”

“The same. I find such assumptions vulgar. _And entirely possible_.”

“ _It’s not what happened_ ,” he said, but when Will looked back towards Hannibal, he could see that they both knew what she had done.

“Jack is a dog with a bone when it comes to such things. _He will ask her when she wakes up. Or have one of us ask her_.”

“Jack will find no actual evidence of her involvement. And if she has survived this long with her father, she will not cave under Jack’s interrogation.”

“Likely so.”

“You mentioned, before, someone named Luna? When does she arrive?”

“I don’t know. Probably soon. Luna follows her own schedule.”

“And she will help you extricate Hobbs from your mind?”

“Yes. She, uh, has practice with ordering a disorganized mind.”

“How so?”

“Meditation, mostly.” Or legilimency.

“Does she use a mind palace?” Will wasn’t entirely sure what that was, but he could infer.

“Yes, and she helps me reinforce mine. I’m not very good at it, see.”

“I use a mind palace as well.”

“That must be why your emotions tend to be so muted,” Will observed, for a moment forgetting that people got offended when he said things like that. But when he looked up, Hannibal’s face showed nothing. And he seemed the type to prize politeness.

 

 

 

Will was back in the shooting range, avoiding the hospital. Bullet after bullet, the loud noise partially muffled by the headphones mostly able to take his mind off of things. As a challenge, he tried to get all the bullets through the same holes, a test in accuracy and precision. He emptied the clip, before setting down the gun and taking off his headphones.

“I’m pretty sure firearm accuracy isn’t a prerequisite for teaching,” Will was glad his gun was a) out of bullets, and b) not holding the gun, because otherwise Katz would have been in danger of being shot. As it was, he jumped when he heard her voice.

“Touchy,” she commented.

“I am a real FBI agent,” he said.

“So why are you teaching?”

“I’ve always enjoyed teaching.”

“Always?”

“I lead a... self defense group when I was fifteen.” He loaded another clip, putting another paper figure into position, sending it out. He put the headphones back on, getting into stance. He shot the sixteen rounds in bursts of four one second apart bullets, with a three second pause between bursts, and a shift to a one armed stance for the last two. Will pressed the button, taking out the clip and once more setting the gun down.

“ _You’re a Weaver. I took you for an isosceles guy_ ,” Beverley commented.

“The Weaver protects the shoulder, and its quick to get into. Isosceles leaves me a little too open for comfort,” Will explained.

“Huh.” Will took the paper target from its holder, admiring his marks. Four in the shoulder, four in the heart, four in the head, and four in the knee. There were six holes, though. Two too many. Looked like the transition from double to single handed firing was still rusty, because there were three bullet holes around the heart, off by an inch or so.

“Are those... in the same hole?” Beverley asked.

“Most of them. My stance transitions are off.”

“Still, no wonder that head shot was so clean. We were wondering.”

“Oh?” They talked about him when he wasn’t there, eh?

“Brian wanted to give you the bullet as a gift. _I told him you wouldn’t think it was funny_.”

“ _Probably not_.” Again with the celebrating of death. “Why are you here? I imagine it wasn’t just to watch me shoot.”

“Jack sent me. Wanted to ask how much you know about gardening.” Petunia’s garden flashed through his eyes.

“I don’t enjoy it much. Too much of it as a kid.”

“Your mom was one of those hippy types?” A flower, growing out of a palm.

“Something like that.” Will sighed. “So Jack wants me back in the saddle?”

“Yup. He mentioned something about Lecter’s okay? To be honest I stopped listening.”

“I’m not going to the field, but tell Jack that I’ll meet you guys in the lab afterwards, and that I’ll look at pictures of the scene,” Will said.

“Aye aye, captain,” Beverley mock saluted, and turned to leave. Will slowly followed in that general direction, and soon found himself waiting for the team, sitting on one of the tables.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all those who took a chance on this, and those that ended up liking it, and I'm sorry that it didn't pay off :/


End file.
